


Please, Do Help Your Self (But Not To Stouffer's Pizza)

by Iwantthatcoat



Series: Piecroft Chronicles [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Homophobia, M/M, MCD begins at Chapter 6, Manipulative sherlock is manipulative, Possible Foursome, Possible MCD, Reference to amnesiatic sexual experience, See alternate link in notes for different plotline, Self-cest, Time Travel, alternate endings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 09:59:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13233360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Sherlock Holmes knows himself well. He knows his strengths, his weaknesses, how he feels about partner John Watson, and he alsoknowshimself in the biblical sense. (That was... explored... in the first part of this series.) What he doesn't know is why his preself has requested he and John travel back in time to meet him. His Uni-aged self says it's for a case, but Sherlock suspects there is an ulterior motive and mistrusts him. Of course he does. They are, after all, both Sherlock Holmes.





	1. Pissed Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note this is the Path A version, which contains angst and even MCD. If you'd like a kinder and gentler version, with more sex, check out Path B.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/16065977/chapters/37511969

Mycroft was pissed off.

Oh, Mycroft had been pissed off at Sherlock countless times. He had even been pissed off at Sherlock before his actual birth; Mummy went on a health food binge just before his conception and dragged the whole family along with her. And Mycroft knew he would continue to be pissed off at Sherlock well into the future. 

But this. This was an entirely new level of pissed-offness. 

He read it once more, still hoping it was some sort of elaborate hoax, but deep down he knew the email was from his brother.

**Dearest Piecroft,**

**I know this will come as a surprise to you, although it really shouldn't.**

**On tomorrow's schedule you will find a request for pre-authorised passes for one Sherlock Holmes, accompanied by a certain Dr John H. Watson.**

**I know you will authorise this. You wouldn't dare mess with Chronology IV, the most sacred of all protocols, now, would you? The mere existence of this email should provide ample evidence that a time shift in my favour (and when I say "my", I mean Past Me, of course) has already occurred, so-- you will need to correct the imbalance. Please inform John and my Self that they willed be meeting me on Wednesday at 7:46 pm. (Ah, the joys of time travel grammar!)**

**Also, do mention to my Self that although I have maintained the same Montague residence, it is a bit cleaner nowadays (yes, that means exactly what you think it means); that I have stocked up on _certain supplies_ , should they be warranted (and yes, that also means what you think it means); and that I need his assistance with a case.**

**Remember those early ones I took on for you? The cases you thought I couldn't possibly have solved on my own? Perhaps I didn't. There are a few key documents which, should I fail to locate them, could retroactively plunge the whole of Europe into chaos. Of course, if you feel like not sending me back and would prefer to risk altering the course of history, I suppose you could be stubborn about it.**

**The signature on the release form is from Dr Weise, and I expect you might be curious as to how and why (though you should already know the answer to at least one of those questions) a dead woman's signature is appearing on a release form. You have my word it is authentic-- not that that counts for much.**

**Did you meet with her back when she was still alive? She _is_ still alive, of course. Travellers can avoid their death, given a proper understanding of how these things work, but it does make you tend to fade away slowly as your life force is eaten up running two Selves simultaneously. That's what she hypothesises, anyway... who knows for certain? Well, by now, _she_ does and, knowing her, has likely found a workround. In any case, I taught her how to fake her death in order to... avoid her death.**

**Did you know she was a good friend of Mummy's? Mummy's maths skill was essential to the early days of the TTP. Oh, and Dr Weise was also the driving force behind your promotion to the position you currently occupy. Well, that along with your not being an idiot, most of the time, and that you may be depended upon not to go mucking about in the time stream. Unlike myself. And then there was the fact that I recommended you to her. I needed easier access.**

**Also, did you know that even if you aren't aware of ever having been inside a bubble, the bubble itself leaves trace energy? (Oh, so many things you do not know. How frustrating for you!) Not visible to just anyone, of course, but very visible for those who know exactly what to look for. Like Dr Weise, who contacted me along with all the other Travellers. She is quite thorough and knowledgeable; she told me all about how to avoid fucking things up. Though I do believe I will keep that information to myself.**

**Love,  
** **Your Currently- _Much-_ -Younger Brother,  
** **Sherlock  
**

********

********

 

Mycroft was too pissed to even sigh. He turned to his ledger, saw the request which had been signed by a ghost-- _not dead, fine_ \--and he stamped and initialed it in the next column. Back at his laptop once more, he moved to select delete, but then decided instead to forward the email to Sherlock; he could tell his own Self all about his "clean" flat-- _good, he's off the drugs now, at least--_ and his "supplies". He shuddered to think what that specifically referred to, given the purpose of Sherlock's last visit with his preself, but it was none of his business, and he was determined it remain so. 

There were important cases at stake. He had always known Sherlock had located those Pembroke letters entirely too quickly for a neophyte. 

Sherlock arrived the next morning, looking predictably smug. 

"Glad you still saw fit to allow me to save the free world...Piecroft."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and then turned his focus to John, ascertaining just what he knew about the previous trip. 

"He's already been briefed on time travel protocol. I am not so sure it would be wise to place us in a bubble this time, since I am, or should I say.... willed be?," Sherlock smiled broadly, "in an active investigation."

Mycroft grimaced at Sherlock's mocking attempt at proper grammar. If such a thing truly existed, it hadn't been codified yet. He remained uncertain as to whether or not Sherlock...the Sherlock that had written the email... hadn't made the whole thing up just so Mycroft would feel ignorant. If he had actually spoken to Dr Weise though, that would make Sherlock the world's leading authority on time travel-- even if he had retained little of what he had once known. Perhaps he had known all of it, all this time, and had simply refused to disclose this knowledge. It seemed entirely in character.

"And I am looking forward to meeting this other Sherlock." John winked. The man actually winked. Mycroft would not be drawn into this sordid conversation by responding. 

_Cases. Important cases._

"Since you seem to already know what to do, I'll just... leave you both to it. And yes, I cannot do a bubble if you need to move about freely. Your preself claims there is already an imbalance, and from what I can tell, he is correct. I believe he caused it _deliberately_ , without ever having contacted you. I am, to be frank, not entirely aware--"

"By which you mean, 'not at all'--"

" _Not entirely aware_ of how you accomplished that. It means you know more about the process than I. So... I will send you back, and leave you to make the proper adjustments. Remember, Brother Mine... balance is a violation of natural law, not simply jurisprudence. These rules are not arbitrary."

"Apparently, I know my way around them."


	2. Self Help

Sherlock and John stepped into their respective chambers and waited an inordinately long time for the calibrations to be finalised, providing Sherlock with ample opportunity to second-guess nearly every aspect of this trip. Surely, John had employed a suggestive manner just to annoy Mycroft. If John had expectations of any romantic entanglement with his preself, success would be highly unlikely. But that wasn’t how Sherlock had portrayed it. He had picked the most titilating moments of his experience with his uni-aged Self and either disregarded or embellished the rest. Well, maybe they would all be so busy with the case that there would be little time for any... intimacy… on anyone's part. His preself had a definite purpose in calling him back, after all. Had he assisted himself in any past cases? If so, he had no recollection of it, though memory of travelling was always limited and occasionally quite unreliable. Well. God helps those who help their Selves.

Sherlock's preself was in another room, the sound of clinking glass emanating from the kitchen, and he appeared to not so much hear as sense his two guests materialising somewhere in the living area. "Just a moment,” he called out. “Finishing up. Have a seat. Oh, and do mind the box on the mantelpiece. That should tell you all you need to know."

Sherlock looked warily upward, still expecting to find his Moroccan syringe case there, in spite of the claim to be drug-free, but found instead a small, ivory box. A different type of case entirely was occupying his preself's time, then. The Victor Savage case. He smiled. He knew exactly where he was at, so to speak, both personally and professionally. 

Things were going well, then. His preself had chosen one of the more impressive moments in his past, and he was grateful John would be seeing him in fine form. Sherlock angled himself to get a peek into the kitchen. He even was wearing Dolce and Gabana.

His preself cleaned up fairly well, but Sherlock could easily see it was a fairly new thing for him-- the concern with outward appearance. The suit had been a gift from Mycroft. His brother had asked him to attend an important banquet to assess who might be selling state secrets, and Sherlock had protested that he could not possibly attend, having no appropriate clothing to blend in with the crowd. Which was true. Sweatpants and inside out t-shirts had been his standard fare up until that point-- dressing entirely for comfort. Well, soon after he had needed money. And with that came obtaining work. And with _that_ came the requirement of cultivating a certain image. Still, showing up to assist Mycroft wearing something less-than-professional had guaranteed him a brand new set of clothing. At first, it was simply a way to serve a dual purpose of annoying his brother and scoring an expensive suit for free, but soon he would discover just how differently he’d be treated when he didn't look like the ex-junkie he actually was. After that he wouldn't be caught leaving the flat without a suit.

He hadn't had any difficulty solving those early cases for Mycroft. The rug had been flipped the wrong way, the tracks... missing any traces of blood, and the Kratides case had hardly been a case at all. His preself needing help to recover documents must certainly be a ruse. Sherlock was still puzzled why they had been summoned, though he'd figure it out. 

"I'm sure you are wondering why I called you all here," his preself said with a smile, walking into the front room. John returned it. Sherlock still looked perplexed. "Little joke? Don't tell me you have no room in there for jokes. How sad." 

"I'm afraid not."

"John Watson." John extended his hand. "I store jokes and unnecessary pop culture references for the both of us. Pleased to meet you."

Sherlock's preself had been assessing John from the moment he entered the room, and continued to do so shamelessly as he shook John's outstretched hand. "Yes, this is more awkward than I anticipated as well," said the preself. "And yes, my primary motivation was to see you myself."

Sherlock eyed his preself with thinly-veiled disdain. "You wanted to meet him... after having devoted far more of your... our... life to studying time travel than either of us had ever intended. Remember when you said you could theoretically drop chemistry entirely and study physics, cause a chain reaction, never become a consulting detective? You cut it remarkably close, and I still have no idea how I am unaware of all of this. You were quite right to check on John's _very existence_. I'd never have met Sta-- the person who will end up introducing us-- if we weren't both in the right place at the right time. How easy it would have been, to have missed that opportunity."

John was stunned and stepped back. 

"And you were about to thank him, weren't you, John? This is me at my core. Selfish."

"You forget, I did not contact Dr Weise, she contacted me."

"And she forced you to study time travel, did she?"

"She showed me how to master it. How to layer experiences in order to move forward and backward without contamination. I created the illusion of an imbalance to ensure you would be sent, but we are far beyond such petty concerns. And yes, one might say we are a selfish being."

Sherlock continued to glare at his preself. "I did not lie. Are you happy now? I told you John existed, and here he is. I know there is no pressing case. What do you want?"

"Oh, but there is. It is a messy one. Matilda Briggs. And believe me, the world is not yet ready for her. Dr Weise's rogue assistant. I will have to come up with another explanation for our stopping her after we do, but that part’s not exactly difficult. The actual stopping, however, might be."

John moved closer to Sherlock's preself. "You didn't think I existed?"

The preself glanced at the carpet, eyeing the familiar acid stain Sherlock had commented upon during his last visit to his past. "I...had my doubts," he mumbled. He looked back up and locked eyes with John. "I mean, I knew all about you. I read it all. I even got as far as figuring out your name. But... I never anticipated you'd stay."

John looked from Sherlock back to, well, the other Sherlock, and then back again.

Sherlock spoke. "Yes, I understand."

"Hey, wait a minute. You... both of you, even... thought I would... leave?"

"Well, I tried to delay the possibility by becoming more competent, but given that _he_ ," Sherlock gestured disdainfully at his preself, "never even thought of me as remotely capable of the emotional and physical demands of a relationship, I --"

"Why should I have changed?" the preself interrupted. "I'm not interested and then, suddenly, I am? Far more likely I'm stringing you along somehow. Using you for something. And that you'd inevitably find out, because you must be intelligent or, at the very least, emotionally perceptive, or else why would I have been interested in you in the first place?"

Sherlock nodded.

John’s jaw dropped. "What? You agree with this?"

"Well of course I do. I'm making perfect sense."

The preself made as if to add something, but then decided against it, and simply nodded as well.

John turned to the preself this time. "And you brought us here so you could see me with your own eyes, instead of just waiting the year or so till you meet me at Bart's--" 

Sherlock grimaced. 

"What? Oh, I'm not supposed to say anything? Well, we already have to fix some sort of time anomaly, so I guess we just fix a slightly bigger one. And all because you were concerned you had screwed things up with-- what? Bad sex tips? I mean yeah a bit of blind-leading-the-blind there, but whatever you two did made this version," John gestured with his thumb toward Sherlock, "feel considerably more at ease, so, there's that. I figured I owed you one and... well... seeing as you are both Sherlock... I...." The preself raised his eyebrows very slightly, as if he were trying not to make it appear visible and falling just short of success. "Never mind. Just. I wanted to see what Sherlock was like before I met him. And to thank you."

The preself scoffed. "What I am _like_ is a thoroughly obnoxious graduate chemist who pilfers things from the lab, which he then uses to run experiments to help him understand a profession he has somehow carved out for himself because he can't do anything else. Yes, points for ingenuity and perseverance, but minus several for being a thief and an addict with less than six months' sobriety just now putting some flesh onto his bones and throwing the whole mess of it into a suit he cajoled out of his brother."

John nodded sharply. He had almost forgotten this aspect of Sherlock's personality. This was a more intense version of what he had been like when they first met. This younger Sherlock was trailing his coat... well, more like he was trailing his whole bloody wardrobe. Of course the thrashing he would be opening himself up to would be psychological, not physical, and John sensed he was being set up explicitly for this younger version of Sherlock to vent. Still, he couldn't resist just a bit of an answer. "Sounds like my type. You'll eventually steal an ashtray for me. And cajoling anything out of Mycroft is always a bonus."

The preself's grin spread slowly as he turned to Sherlock. "I knew there was more to him than a certain... compact efficiency."

"We aren't in a bubble!" Sherlock blurted, his voice, panicked. "You need to point us to the case, and then we need to separate before we affect paths."

"You are going to have to trust me. I have no desire to sabotage anyone's future."

"What does being in a bubble have to do with it?" asked John.

Sherlock spoke quickly, "If you are in a bubble, you do not affect the outside world and you can choose to forget what goes on during your time here. As we are not, our actions will not only change the future, but we will lack the ability to amnesiate events which might lead to timeline contamination."

"Unnecessary to amnesiate,” the preself said with a near eerie calm. 

"Oh, I forgot. You spoke with Dr Weise for, what, an hour or two... and now you are fully capable of manipulating time."

"That's not it. I will explain it later. I will even provide a demonstration to remove all doubt. But, not yet. And that isn't what had you so concerned at any rate.” The preself gestured with a quick movement of his head to John. "Returning his little flirtatious comment with one of my own... that's considered being polite, no? So he won't feel too rejected when I turn down the next, inevitable, thinly-veiled offer to go along with the one he just stopped short of finalising. Just making you both feel better, implying I at least _understand_ what you see in him. I have no desire to bed my Self and my future husband."

John clenched his jaw, "I do have a name besides 'him'."

"But to find out my postself wasn't interested either," he continued. "That, I admit, was a bit unexpected. Once is an experiment, easily written off. A second time, not so much?"

"I just thought--" Sherlock had been trying hard not to express the regret he felt. The defensiveness his preself projected made it all the more clear he wanted no form of intimacy, neither physical nor psychological. And, besides, Sherlock was all too aware he had abandoned him. No. Worse. He had loved him and _then_ abandoned him.

"Oh, stop it. I let you take what you needed, I didn't care either way, it was mildly interesting, and you moved on. That’s why you chose me in the first place, remember? Hopefully it was good sex." He blushed just a bit. "For you two, I mean. After. I know what we did was...good. Except for you torturing yourself at the beginning. Bet you haven't had need for all that specialized knowledge you were so keen on acquiring."

John looked as if he was attempting to fill in the missing pieces of the conversation without success-- two geniuses talking over his head could only serve to make him even more ill-at-ease.

"No. You were right. And. Yes, it was... good. But we were in a bubble. You chose to forget; how did you even remember any of this?" He deliberately softened his tone... the opposite of what he felt... in the hopes that his emotions would somehow align themselves with his voice.

"I deduced it. I don't exactly make a habit of keeping glycerine in my bedroom. And the sheets were quite the mess. There is a thin line between the impossible and the highly improbable. The lack of physical discomfort indicated that we had likely only...."

Sherlock gaped while John kept looking back and forth between the two of them. So… this version of him had, in fact, been left with no memories of what had occured. Had figured it out on his own. Sherlock could plainly see John trying to imagine waking up alone in one's own bed attempting to determine who you had just had sex with. John was certain it would have been an absolutely horrifying experience, and his expression telegraphed that fact. Of course John would have every faith that, it being Sherlock, he had come to the correct conclusion right away-- but how difficult would that be to accept? Sherlock, on the other hand, was lost in thought, for he could see himself doing just that. Examining the room, the sheets, his own body-- immersing himself in the clues would stave off the emotional reaction… for the short term, anyway. But then--

The preself's smile threatened to consume his entire face. "Oh, you should see your face right now...you _really should!_ Both of your faces! No, no, that's not how it actually happened. Dr Weise asked me if I wanted to remember. She intercepted me in hospital long before I was permitted to return home. I had left the flat while the bubble was still active, you see, and had gotten spectacularly high-- you were quite correct on that point-- and Lestrade had found me and dropped me off at St Bartholomew's to ensure I didn't die. I never had the opportunity to awaken the next morning from post-coital slumber and attempt to puzzle through who had sex in my bed, only to conclude that it had actually been me, with me. That certainly would have been an interesting experience. Anyway, she met me in the recovery room-- said she traced me there and that memories were stored within me if I wanted access to them. And she reassured me knowing wouldn't change a thing about our shared future."

Sherlock still looked stunned as his preself continued. John had neatly swapped his shock for anger.

"I... wasn't certain it had even happened, meeting another me and being somehow entirely unaware of it. That she wasn't just crazy. Crazy is notoriously difficult to distinguish from truthful, as you well know-- both believe what they are saying with all their heart-- so I wanted proof. She showed me how to bring the memories back. _Later, when I returned home,_ I confirmed the events she had helped me access-- by the state of my bedroom." He turned the top corner of his mouth up, in what was almost, but not quite, a smile, and faced John. "We are supposed to meet sometime after Lestrade saves my life." He turned toward Sherlock next. "You can safely tell me exactly where and when, you know."

Both Sherlock and John remained silent.

The preself rolled his eyes and sighed. "Fine. I know you were already a detective when you met him." He glanced at John. "You must have chosen him-- initially, I mean-- because he was useful. Or are you going to try and convince me the heavens parted and a ray of light shone upon his face--"

"John. John's face," John quietly added. "In case you forgot."

The preself continued his sentence with only the briefest of pauses, "-- as some common acquaintance introduces us in, what, a lab, I suppose. That's where you were worried I wouldn't be. And then you cried, 'Yes, yes, this is the one!', and burst out into Etta James." 

Sherlock simply blinked, attempting to make a connection where there was none.

"You didn't! Etta James?” the preself stammered.

"Of course I did. No practical use."

"Yes. Music only served to keep you alive. Doesn't matter." He cleared his throat. "Well, I do need you for a case, as I had begun to explain. Matilda Briggs has met up with another Traveller. They were introduced outside of Dr Weise's office. Amazing how frequently people with destructive tendencies seem to find each other! Now Briggs has shown Sebastian Moran how to manipulate time." 

"Lord Moran? The one who wanted to blow up Parliament?" asked John.

"Seriously, John, I have no evidence this version of me has any clue how to manipulate timelines and is, in all likelihood, just looking to gather information... and you are making his job remarkably easy."

"I am well aware you foiled a previous criminal attempt by Moran,” the preself said. “I need you to do it once more."

"And you can't?" Sherlock snapped.

"Here's the thing about repetitive events across timelines. They tend to be... repetitive. This is a job for a Holmes and a Watson."

"And you have no Watson."

"Correct."

"Yet," added John. 

"Well, until that future time, you two are better-equipped to handle the situation than I."

"This makes no sense. If we don't have the opportunity to delete these events because of the lack of a bubble, then we would have remembered them. And I don't remember any of this. I have not met Lord Moran twice."

The preself paused, then fidgeted with his cuffs. "I have the capability of deletion even without a bubble."

"Yes, but John doesn't."

"Perhaps you teach him."

"Or?"

"Look. I got this last year when I w--," the preself looked a bit embarrassed, but continued on, "I got this last year. You don't have it, do you?" The preself presented a small, jagged scar on the fleshy heel of his palm. "You don't have it, on _my own body_ , in the future. _Why?_ Because are not the same. We exist on parallel planes. I'm _not_ the past you. I know that has been, and will continue to be, the prevailing theory-- but I talked to Dr Weise, and it is _wrong_. Piecroft and all the Little Piggies...they are _wrong_. All that monitoring-- worrying about nothing. I'm not at all surprised you tend toward solipsism, but Sherlock Holmes is not the Center of the Universe. There are some worlds that don't have a form of us in them at all." He stared at Sherlock, not breaking eye contact for so much as a blink. "There are some where you two never meet. Some where you hate each other."

"There may be other explanations,” said Sherlock

"Such as...?"

"So, you are saying we won't affect each other's timeline because we run on different tracks,” John clarified.

"Some of it appears to repeat, but essentially, yes. I suspect each Universe has a single, significant point of diversion."

Sherlock was silent as John continued. "So, here, in your Universe--"

"This is not my Universe."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock looked around the room. This was absolutely his Montague Street flat. Or…

“So, we are both visiting another universe? Is a third incarnation of me in the loo, or are we just dimension-sitting for him while he goes on holiday? Gathering the post? Watering the plants, which of course I am aware there are none, because this is _exactly the same_ flat I had in 1995.”

“We are not actually in my flat. And we aren’t in another universe either-- not yet. This is the calibration room. I’ve been occupying myself with a minor experiment whilst waiting for you to arrive. Nothing terribly interesting, of course. I don’t have near enough time for that. Now that you are here, and the situation is more or less explained, we shall make a few adjustments and then be on our way, emerging from this holding area into the lobby of the hotel where Lord Moran is staying.”

“This,” John gestured round, “is a holding station? It serves the same purpose as that thing we were strapped into with all the dials and sensors while Mycroft set the controls...the thing we were in just before we got here? This is so much...nicer. How has technology gone backwards over time?”

“Doctor Watson, a holding station can take many forms, and while my brother believes all the monitoring equipment is essential, I do not. And you have made two critical errors. First… consider how much more advanced our civilization would have been by now if not for the destruction of key bits of scientific information from the distant past. The burning of the Library of Alexandria? The Dark Ages? Is it so inconceivable to you that the “past”, then, should have had advances that were lost when, for example, the woman who discovered the entire process fled into another dimension to protect herself, and was not able to record the methods by which to structure a replica of your own preferred space to serve as a holding station?”

“She has enemies?”

Sherlock interrupted. “Anyone who invented ways to navigate time and space would naturally have enemies.”

“Yes,” the preself replied. “Matilda Briggs, Alicia Johnson-- also known as “The Cutter”, Isadora Persano--”

“Are they all women?”

“Something tells me you wouldn't have interrupted me to ask if they were all men, had that been the case. And Isadora is male. There is also James Philmore. Male. But the most dangerous of the lot by far are Briggs and Johnson. Briggs seems to have recruited Moran, which is unusual, as she generally works alone. Johnson has a crew working with her, a fairly small, but quite powerful, organization. The fact that Briggs is now seeking outside support may indicate that Briggs and Johnson have turned against each other. I intend to watch and wait. If they have each found a universe to dominate, they shouldn't make any trouble.”

“Shouldn't we go stop them? In those universes, I mean?” asked John.

“How many versions of them would you care to stop? A hundred? A thousand?”

John brushed off the admonishment. “Then why pick this one?” 

“Test case. To know if it is possible. I am far from certain. I want to understand every nuance of how travelling works. As I have nothing tethering me here, I want to be able to explore different dimensions, and if I happen to see something that isn't quite right, I want to know if I can fix it or if all my efforts-- no matter how well thought out and complex-- will still prove futile. This is an experiment. And one in which I do not wish to participate; my purpose would be to observe.”

John smiled. “So you want to know if all your changes will still yield the same results. The Novikov Self-Consistency Principle.”

Both Sherlocks stared blankly at him. 

“You’ve never heard of this? Either of you?”

Preself coughed. “Well, not by that name, no, but I’m certain the concept to which the name refers is not unfam--”

“I saw a graphic online. Well done one. Anyway, it said if you are trying to prevent World War II by killing Hitler--”

Sherlock sighed. 

“OK, fine. No Hitler again, I forgot, okay? So, if you wanted to, ummm--”

“Why not Hitler? It seems an ideal example.”

“Fine. Go ahead. Use Hitler. Everyone does.”

“Well, considering neither of you will have seen the first Terminator film, or Harry Potter… So. If you wanted to kill Hitler, and you break into the nursery, and kill Baby Hitler, and replace him with another baby, then that new baby will end up being the one who will grow up to be the person the world knows as Adolph Hitler.”

“Charming example. Fixed timeline principle. Everything has already been accounted for.”

“Right”

Sherlock cocked his head and looked at his preself. “But there was a second critical error.”

“Dr Watson is thinking of this as simply past and future. It isn’t. Their past isn’t precisely your past. It is in many ways, but not all ways. The same goes for their future. And I want to determine the degree of impact we can actually have. It is more complicated than mere time travel. It is also dimension travel. Now, that having been said, we are not hoping into this new universe at the same date it is here. We will be headed into their past.” The preself fidgeted with some controls on what looked like a very small version of a telly remote, before placing it in his inner coat pocket.

John looked around the flat again with far greater scrutiny. “So this is your place. In 1995?”

“Yes,” both Sherlocks responded simultaneously, then both looked embarrassed for having done so and turned away from each other. 

“It’s always 1995 in here. It was, a good year,” said the preself. “Not only can I come back home to a certain virtual location, but to a certain virtual time period as well.”

Sherlock went to the bookshelf and picked up a battered children’s book. The cover was still bright yellow. “ _Polly and the Wolf Again_. I lost this in the move.” He ran his fingers over the cover. “Mycroft used to read this to me.”

“Yes, well--” The preself crossed the room at an overly-quick pace to end up at the curtains, which he threw open to reveal not a view of the street, but a larger series of buttons and dials. He checked them a few times, flipped a switch, and then finished his sentence by indicating the window with a flourish and saying, “--shall we?”

The window opened up to a secluded hallway within a deluxe hotel. They stepped through it and the curtains closed again, blending seamlessly into the wall.

"Look, you two go enjoy... yourself. I'm going to go grab some food from the vending machines. This travelling stuff is making me hungry, and I know you both won't be eating anything on a case, so.... Hash it all out, and then let me know what we're gonna do." John headed to the lift.

Sherlock turned sharply toward his preself, who did not cower in the slightest. "So I am not you, then. And you belong here no more than I do. And you neglected to mention this because...?"

"Because I wanted to still be of value to you. For you to care about my life. For you to come here. And I knew you would, if I was you. I also needed to find out if I did… change things from our last meeting. If that is something I should be concerned about when I travel.” The preself’s features darkened. “If John was still around. It seems as if I may never have one at all. A John. You did made me think having one was something special. I suppose it must be.” The preself added, “for you,” in what was most likely meant to have sounded like an afterthought. “I have not seen evidence of a Sherlock Holmes here. There is a John, however. Quite possibly a John without a Sherlock. I wonder if he feels as if he is lacking something intangible. I don't think I would have, had I not known." 

Sherlock’s lips twitched. He regretted ever having discussed John with his preself, even if the conversation hadn't exactly been a voluntary one on his part. This version of him was perhaps fine alone. Or, would have been. He was, in fact, so busy contemplating a version of a Sherlock Holmes who would never meet a John Watson that he realised there was a far more important element of the conversation which had nearly passed him by. 

"How do you know there is a John here?” Sherlock asked.

"I saw him. Well his name, not him in person. I was curious and looked him up in some military records during a previous trip. Before Moran was an issue."

"Why were you here?”

"Exploring worlds. Once Dr Weise said it was possible, I wanted to see for myself. Remember what I said about truth versus crazy? I picked a world. And then, having explored it, I picked another."

"How many times did you do this?'

"Enough to know there are some universes where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson do not exist, and some where you never meet, and universes where--"

"Where John and I hate each other. I am not amnesiatic. So, you played time-tourist."

"I was _practicing_ slipping between worlds."

"And you found one in need of some assistance, so you brought me over."

"Not my primary motivation. I wanted to see if you could slip between worlds as well. And I also thought it a fine excuse to see if John was with you, or if I had to go into your timestream and..."

"And fix it. So you _can_ influence the future."

"And therein lies the experiment. Yours, theirs. I haven’t yet tried.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then spoke. "You readily admit you are uncertain. However, you are beyond confident that we don't influence each other's ultimate course simply by being aware of each other's existence, or by knowing each other's path?”

“I told you. We run on different tracks.” The preself was clearly annoyed.

“Moran doesn't belong here, on this track, yet he supposedly caused an explosion here,” argued Sherlock. It is possible the universe will accept a minor variation. We need to try to fix this. Intervene and save what Moran will destroy.”

“Ask too much of it and it might become unstable. That's why it is best for the two of you to stop Moran. It is consistent with events which have already occurred elsewhere. But still, you are suggesting we attempt to fool this universe into thinking that what Moran willen had done is something minor. That arresting him before Parliament is attacked… a huge explosion now no longer occurring...is a minor, acceptably remedied _glitch_?" 

"Moran being here is an imbalance, and if we take him out it might be restored. The universe doesn't want him to succeed. If you are using this as a proving ground… perhaps he is as well. He might repeat this event cross-dimensionally."

The preself tempered his laugh into a smirk. "So you are implying he wants to set up a multi-dimensional bomb. As well as implying the universe is sentient enough to know when something doesn't belong within it?"

"This universe has a few fixed points, yes. You said as much yourself...things that tend to repeat across all dimensions. Patterns. I believe this universe has some aspects it might wish to change and some it does not. And the four of us are irritants. The longer we all stay here, the more unstable it could theoretically become. I was right to hurry, but not for the reason I thought. We do not know how that instability would manifest.” 

“So... in and out." He paused. "It just occurred to me that that could be seen as a double-entendre. That was not my intention."

Sherlock's phone pinged. It was John.

**I am beside myself.**

**To be a bit less flippant and a lot more precise-- there is another John Watson in this hotel. I'm going to talk to him. Find out why he is here. Unless you think there is a reason not to?**

Sherlock turned to his preself. "Are the people in this universe aware of Travellers?"

"Yes. That is why I initially chose it to explore. Easier to navigate. Why?"

"Well, there is a John Watson here. In this hotel. My John is going to find out why he happens to be here at this precise moment."

The preself cleared his throat. "That's...strange. Personally, I think your John would do well to stay away from him."

"Why? If we don't negatively affect each other by our presence, why should it be any different for John?"

"No, I didn't mean in that sense...I ...mean it is odd that he is here and perhaps we should....figure out more before we talk to him."

"The most efficient way, given that time travel is acknowledged here, would be to ask him."

Sherlock looked at his preself. Had it have been another person wearing the same expression, Sherlock might have believed they were as truly indifferent as they appeared. Since this was some variation of himself, he knew better.

John could handle things. He needed to let John handle things on occasion. It was important. For their relationship. He steered the conversation away from the Johns downstairs. 

“Do you have a plan to stop him?” 

“That's for you and your John to devise.”

“And what exactly do you intend to do while we work something out? Rent a room and watch telly on the bed?”

“I solve puzzles. That's what I do. Missing objects? Legal papers, government documents, photographs ripe for blackmail? Given a bomb blast, I can tell you how they achieved it, but I am no action hero. However, you and John seem to be cut of that cloth.” The preself gave a quick, saccharine smile. “Have at it.”

Sherlock instinctively knew arguing would be pointless. Besides, John was the one who was skilled at moral appeals. He’d kill time until John came back, and then he could fix this too. He recalled his Self’s double entendre.

"That email you sent was, rather suggestive for someone not very interested in sexual activity. If your sole purpose was to annoy Mycroft, well done."

"I was considering the possibility. I thought understanding how you and John make things work might be helpful, and, I could perhaps see if there were any--,” he cleared his throat. "If there was any sexual act I found appealing in and of itself. Not merely in the vicarious sense."

Sherlock weighed what might or might not have been a proposal. "I suspect it isn't something you can figure out in advance, and given John's near-suggestion, I think it would be agreeable.” His lips pressed into a hard line. “If I can stand to so much as look at you, that is. How can you be willing to do absolutely nothing? Even if the effort should prove be extraneous or futile.”

The preself sighed. "Fine. This is where I should say I owe you, and offer my help. Except I don't."

"I figured out the date Piecroft sent me to, and I wouldn't be so sure about that."

The preself glared. "So I am to be grateful to you for leaving me in a state where I couldn't care less if I lived or died, because it ultimately led to my meeting Gabe Lestrade?"

Sherlock nearly reflexively said 'Greg' before his attention was diverted by the rest of the sentence. "I thought you made it your own choice to have a splendid binge, knowing you wouldn't die until you were at least well into your thirties?"

"I did."

"Doesn't sound like it went very well."

"Not exactly. And as it turns out, I could have died anyway. So, so much for your little favour. The way I see it, I owe you less than nothing. If there is another Sherlock floating around here somewhere, let him deal with his own John."

"If you have no John, that John might very well not have a Sherlock.

"Well then, if it isn't even _another Sherlock's_ John, why does he matter? Might as well be some other random person."

"Just like why do you matter? Not being another John's Sherlock?" He had meant to be a scoring a point, but there was a near grief, palpable between them. Sherlock continued on quickly before he risked hearing, ‘I don’t’. "Or... he meets him later. Like you might. Meet yours later. In retirement, or something."

"Right. When I am grey and feeble and we... fight the forces of evil as old men. Hobbling through the streets of London after criminals."

Sherlock shrugged. "Possibly."

"I... am at a loss. You believe that ridiculous scenario may yet come true."

"Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. Instead of dismissing the ridiculous out of hand, you should ask yourself if you are truly not interested in a relationship, or are merely preparing yourself for the eventuality that it never happens."

"What was your first case?"

"The swimming pool. You know all about that."

"I meant with John, and you know that. You're _still_ not going to tell me anything, are you? Look, I'm not saying I can't interfere because it will muck up time. I'm saying it's not my area. I’m not stopping you from doing your best, I am just being realistic enough to say it might not matter.”

Sherlock was silent, his expression remaining unchanged. 

“So, I suppose _this_ is where I do something foolhardy to earn your trust.” He sighed. “Fine. I will help you."

Sherlock smiled. "Whatever excuse you need to make."

"And I don't know. If I want a relationship or not. Certainly it's perfectly clear sex does not alarm me, but… well, I haven't had any since you. And it's not as if I couldn't just go down to a club and pull anyone I wanted, say exactly the right thing...but I just don't miss it."

"I didn't either. But things are different now."

"Maybe it.... Maybe it was fine, so long as it was some form of myself? That seems rather depressing, actually. At least when _you_ thought it was narcissism, it was in a _good_ way. Not, like this. I think I'm not destined to be quite so…. Maybe I just won't... what word goes here? Have? That sounds horrible. Experience... someone else. And I don't mean that you were so spectacular it ruined me for future partners, before you start thinking you were precisely that spectacular. It isn't loneliness; I have far more of a social life than I care for. But, sometimes, I think I would very much want a... sounding board. A whetstone, to keep my mind sharp. Something of a companion. Sexually... I... don't know. Can this still, evolve, into your thirties? Isn't sexuality fixed at, five or something?"

"Discovering new things is part of the adventure. John and I are always learning together. And, for what it's worth, I do believe you. You are not me. Though, it's close enough that that fact hardly matters." He cleared his throat. "So, tell me more about Lord Moran."

"Lord Moran. Well, here he goes by that. In other universes he is just Sebastian. Occasionally he holds a military rank. There are a few of them and from what I can tell, they are all, without exception, terrible human beings. Forgers, assassins, extortionists."

"And this one?"

"Bomber. As before, yes?"

"I didn't get the impression it was his profession so much as an assigned task. How did you know that he is a Traveller too? Before you even knew I... willed had my own run-in with him?"

"I know. The grammar is horrendous. ‘Had’ is correct in this instance. It was, after all, in _your_ past. And the answer is, the same way you can detect a bubble. It creates a field."

"Does he know it? Like you do?"

"I assume so. Usually, if you are already bouncing around, you are very cognisant of your situation It does remain possible, though highly unlikely, he is accidentally switching places. But in any timeline, Moran is-- bad news."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is going to split in half very soon ( two alternate realities ;) ) because I want to write two radically different endings. Ending A is for angst. Ending B is for bedroom. Take your pick which one you want. Or both. Both is good. Because I was realising I couldn’t write it and make both the scenes I wanted to write happen. I thrive on trying new stuff, so I will be creating two different possibilities. Warning: Path A leads to MCD (Major Character Death). Path B leads to MCO ( The Orlando Airport....no no just kidding...it leads to Multiple Character Orgasms...a foursome. Because Sherlock/Sherlock simply wasnt enough for me. I want Sherlock/Sherlock/John/John. And I'm the one writing this ongepatshket fic so what I say goes.

John and John eventually decided to have a drink or three and deal with the situation. 

Normally, one does not stride over to the bar to join a version of one's self whilst balancing three scotch-and-sodas, but John had felt pawky… and who better to appreciate his humour than himself? He’d greeted his preself with a cheerful, "Hi there, handsome."

John's preself downed the offered drink faster than either of them had anticipated, smiled, and said, “Good thing I know who you are, and you're not just some random guy introducing himself via a drink and a bad pickup line."

John had been working on the theory that his self was here on some sort of medical conference. He’d recalled several over the years, one hotel was indistinguishable from another… large, carefully-neutral conference rooms with crystal chandeliers meant to somehow add elegance to any situation, and the thermostat was always set just a bit too warm. He asked his preself if that was why he was at this particular hotel. This new John looked shocked. 

“Medical school? I go to medical school?” 

Well, that line of questioning had probably been a mistake, then. Rather than give even more away, John decided to switch to more open-ended questions-- if he was studying anything currently. Here. Or _abroad_. No. His reaction made it perfectly clear. This John had never so much as left London. 

He was in his early twenties and seemed fairly aimless. Reminded him a bit too much of Harry at that age. John glanced surreptitiously at his preself’s hands. Still strong, a bit battered. Well, he wasn’t anywhere near Sherlock’s level, but he could still determine if someone’s life had been hard or relatively cushy by observing certain physical characteristics. Those were not cushy hands. This version probably left home as soon as possible, too.

“You know, I wasn’t leaning toward EMT, " the preself said. "I was thinking more along the lines of firefighter. But it was still on the list. Got to be able to afford the courses first, though. School during the day, work nights. Desk clerk seemed a good fit. Study while I work, when it gets slower overnight. This is the fifth opening I’ve applied at today.”

And affable. Had he ever really been that affable?

“Kinda funny... if I worked here and then ended up going back for a medical conference years later.” The preself gave John a quick up and down. John could see him mentally adding ‘a lot of years later’. He wasn’t _that_ much older. And anyway, nearly dying a few times’ll age you a bit. 

John made an effort to soften his contempt. “Well, I’m not sure if ever went to one here. A conference, that is.” He neglected to clarify that he had never worked as a desk clerk.

“But they don't let you _travel_ for medical conferences."

“I’ve travelled to lots of places for conferences.”

This newer John looked at him like he was an imbecile. “I don’t mean travel to other cities or countries. I mean travel through _time_. Be a traveller. I admit I ...don't know a lot about that stuff, and so few are allowed to do it. That you...that I... did is… well I must be doing something very important. Do I go back into the military? Am I working for the government? Don’t worry. I won't make any weird choices if I’m important enough to travel! Bet you can’t talk about it. That’s fine. Sorry I asked.”

“I take it you’ve never heard of Sherlock Holmes.”

“No. Will I?”

A ping to the mobile. Right on cue.

John looked at Sherlock’s messages. Apparently Sherlock’s younger self had wasted no time in whipping out one of Mycroft’s cards and securing a room where they could plan things privately. #543. 

“Yeah. I’ll be taking you to him. Well… them.”

Sherlock opened the door wide just before they knocked. John already figured Sherlock— well, make that both Sherlocks— had likely heard their steps in the hallway, despite the carpeting, or maybe Sherlock knew his stride well enough to time it precisely from the lounge up to the room... but John’s preself’s mouth gaped as he watched the door swing open with John’s fist left hovering in the air inches in front of the surface. “Yeah, they’re always like that,” John said by way of explanation.

Sherlock looked at both Johns and smiled, while Sherlock’s preself called out without so much as rising from his chair. “Hello. We are on the trail of a bomber who has every intention of blowing up Parliament, perhaps even a plural would be appropriate here. Parliaments, not bombers. If it were up to me, I’d let you get on with your life, but this one,” the preself gestured abruptly toward Sherlock, “seems to think an extra person would be helpful for a plan. Just to be clear, I prefer to work alone. So. This requires every bit of your stealth and military training.”

John straightened his stance, while his younger self slouched. The preself laughed. “Captain, you will need to bring the former enlistee into line.”

The younger John was indignant. “And...how did you know about that? Have you been watching me?”

“I might have looked you up. Both Watsons leave the military, under different circumstances and at different times, it seems.”

“Well, I decided there were other ways to serve my fellow man.” 

Preself chuckled.

“What?!” 

“Nothing. I’m sure you will find your niche.” 

Sherlock shot his self a murderous look and then quickly regained his focus. “We have a mission to accomplish. I need to know which room a man is located in. I suspect it will be this floor, for concierge members. We need to plan exactly how to stop him. But first, we need to find him.”

The preself took up right where Sherlock left off. “Monitor the floors. Watch the elevators. At some point he will leave this hotel and we need to intercept him.”

Sherlock tried to bring up a picture of Lord Moran on his mobile. He frowned and tried again.

“Technology not of the era you are presently occupying only works intermittently at best. Yes, there was texting, and mobile calling, but not an iphone and not easy online access. Keep trying and we will eventually get a picture to show John II here. Your John will have to rely on his memory. Hopefully it is still sharp.”

“I remember what he looks like, thank you very much.” John turned his back to Sherlock's preself. “He will probably still have the briefcase with him. We need to get it if we can; it will have a bomb in it.” John then looked at his younger self, who was grinning. 

Sherlock’s preself warned, “And no heroics. This requires a plan. Don’t just tackle him, grab the suitcase and run. For all you know he will still have the detonator in his pocket and will blow you up.”

“But would that stop him?” asked the younger John.

“No. It just means he’d have to make a second bomb. Probably delay him a day or two. Not worth it, on balance.”

John looked at his self and shook his head slowly. Sherlock steadfastly avoided his self, looking at the carpet and taking a quiet breath. John wanted to take his hand, but he held back. The preself might make some snide comment, and John really didn’t want to fight the urge to deck him if they had to work together to get this done. “Callous indifference and reckless abandon make a surprisingly good team,” John said, as the two preselfs continued their discussion.

“But if I can shove him out a window, or something?”

“Yes, that might make difference. Though there are other ways of stopping him. Like pulling him out of his stream.”

“Really? So he would be in a sort of... time limbo?”

“For a bit, yes. Briggs would get him out eventually though. But it would work for a time.”

“So that's the goal. To lure him to a portal or something.”

“And find a way to seal it off,” added the original John, attempting to rejoin the conversation.

“You both watch too many movies,” said Sherlock’s preself. 

Sherlock looked grim. “This is extremely dangerous. Yes, we could find something like that, if it exists. But we are better off doing this through conventional means. Such as having him arrested. Last time, we had undercover agents posing as hotel employees bring him in. That would work. But we need to prevent him from using the bomb in the meantime. Which means tailing him. Doing that without being seen is next to impossible. He knows we will be trying to stop him.”

“There will be a point of divergence, if it hasn’t happened already,” Sherlock’s preself said. “Something that makes this universe different.”

“Different? I thought it was the same,” said John. “Just… a different place on the timeline. Maybe some minor variations?”

“It’s one of many possible theories,” said Sherlock. He glared at his preself. “We can't say anything with certainty.”

“Well, it doesn't matter much as far as our plan though, right? We do what we do anyway?”

Sherlock's preself frowned. “Yes. I suppose the plan still remains the same. But it would help strategically to know at what point the timelines diverge and the history changes. Then you'll know it's all new from that point forward.”

“John’s right. A waste of time trying to pinpoint it. So. We can get police to surround the elevators, as before…”

“Isn't having four of us this time a diversion in-and-of itself?” asked John.

“Not necessarily,” replied Sherlock. “The sequence of events might remain the same.”

Sherlock’s preself smiled.”Unless we make a deliberate change. Originally you were at Sumatra Road when Moran was arrested, correct?”

“Yes, “ Sherlock replied.

“Well. Stay here. Wait.”

John tried his best to rein in his anger. “And risk having the station and everything above it blown to smithereens? Are you insane?”

Sherlock seemed to be disliking his preself more and more by the second. “It does seem a large risk to take to prove a theory.”

“Proving or disproving this particular theory is crucial for the security of everyone’s future. If we can come into a timeline, essentially as intruders, and force a diversion, we know we can change any outcome! Think how valuable that information is!”

John had no qualms about arguing the point, while Sherlock remained quietly taken-aback. “Our mission is to stop Moran," said John. "I think perhaps you have forgotten that fact.”

“Of course, of course," the preself said quickly. "Lots of lives. The diversion is of secondary importance.”

John’s preself was pacing restlessly til he found a pen and hotel notepad and began to jot down a crude diagram of the rooms and hallway. “You believe he’s on this floor. The elevators are here. The stairs at the end of the hall, and another set at the far end. The ice machine is...here...and the snack area is in...where is the concierge room?”

Sherlock took his pen and made a C on the crudely-drawn map. 

“Okay then. Uh..John...can wait by the ice machine. He will get a good view of the hall and the elevators...and I can.. pull a fire alarm, and then everyone will leave their rooms and…”

Sherlock’s preself looked as if he was seriously considering everything John's preself had just said, but when he spoke, it showed that it had been half-hearted. “Do you think there will be an alarm to simply pull?”

“Well, I’ll start a fire then. A small one.”

“I see.”

“Leave the investigating to me and...Sherlock,” said Sherlock. We will find out the room he is in. Just stand by the ice machine facing opposite directions and watch the elevators and the paths to the stairs at the far ends of the hallway to be sure he doesn't leave. We will contact the police, and they can handle it from there while we go disarm the bomb, as we had done previously. If it is still in the same location.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Time to check the front desk,” said Sherlock’s preself. “Should we do 'takeaway'?"

"Sounds reasonable."

"If he booked it in his name,” the preself added.

"Why wouldn't a man such as he? He wants to be treated well here. Anyplace, really. And he’s not under suspicion. Not by anyone except us. So, me... or you?"

"I'll do it."

"Be my guest."

"Water fountain?"

Sherlock gestured with his head. "Down the hall to the right, by the loo."

The preself eyed the front desk personnel one at a time and frowned.

Sherlock smiled, his grin taking over his entire face. "Well, you could always--"

"I will find a way around it, thank you."

He headed down the hallway in search of a maid's cart and pilfered a black plastic bag used for clothes to be sent out for dry cleaning, a notepad, a pen, and a tiny bottle of hand lotion. With no rollerball pens up front, this would have to do. Returning to the lobby, the preself strode right past and sat at the workcentre located down another corridor. He tore a sheet from the notepad, ripped off the hotel information on top and shoved it into his trouser pocket. Then he folded his jacket as neatly as possible and placed it in the bag. Finally, he unbuttoned a bit more of his shirt and tousled his hair.

He wrote Moran 521 lightly on the paper and smeared the whole thing in hand lotion, and then placed the bottle in his trousers as well. He held it up to the light. Not bad. The preself walked back toward Sherlock, just to give him a victorious parting glance, and exited out a side door. 

He returned to the lobby through the front entrance. Slouching a bit, eyeing the paper in his hand with false confusion, not quite looking where he was walking, the preself stopped just short of the front desk, sighed, and waited. He wore as put-upon an expression as he could manage, ran his hand through his hair, and again, surreptitiously, rubbed his thumb against the paper. A little more oil and product couldn't hurt. 

Eventually, the front desk receptionist made eye contact. The preself smiled weakly and as she acknowledged his expression with a measured politeness, he looked anxiously down at the paper once more. When it was his turn in the queue, he cleared his throat and spoke in a significantly less refined accent. "Sorry, sorry, Miss, but… We got this new guy taking orders, and he don't...oh...I'm from Curry Express. Order for Moran. New guy don't know what he's doin' and... well, I guess he just didn't notice, but he done got sauce or somethin' on the _ticket_ , and well...does this look like a 2 to you, or a 7? I can't...maybe this one is a 2 and _that's_ a seven. Well, sorry again, but, could you tell me what room Mr Moran is in, please?” He checked his watch...the delivery would be late by now, of course. Ruined tip. He frowned.

She smiled politely. "Oh, certainly, I... well _Lord_ Moran is in Room 528."

"Lord?" He looked down at his shoes. "Caw! Thank you much," he said, and hurried back round the corner, ignoring whatever else the woman had said. Once safely out of sight he replaced his jacket, smoothing wrinkles as best he could, and binned the bag, torn paper, and lotion.

Sherlock was waiting at the lift down the hallway, and returned his mobile to his coat pocket just as saw his counterpart arrive. He had already hit the fifth floor button. "Concierge level. Five...?"

"Twenty eight," added the preself.

* * *

“Do you have a clean line of sight of the stairs?”

“No. Not from here. I’d have to be in the hallway, but then there wouldn’t be any cover. I can't just stand there. What if I move to the stairs itself? I could go a floor above and just look down. He wouldn’t notice me. People don’t look up.”

Something deep in his gut told John not to split up, but there was simply no way to monitor both locations effectively otherwise. If he thought hard enough, maybe he’d find some other way to do this.

"So. I am you?" asked the preself, interrupting his attempt at planning. Though he still hadn’t a clue what else to do, in all honesty. 

"So they say, " he replied. Only one John Watson was up for this conversation. 

The other John chuckled, then was quiet. Finally, he spoke again. "Do you think he’s right? About the dimensions? Your Sherlock might be right, too. And I think he'd be less inclined to hide things from you. You two seem...pretty open with each other."

Damn. This John thought they were just… associates… didn't he? This John knew nothing about Sherlock, or of their partnership in the broader sense and, well... He let out an involuntary, despondent huff of air. 

Mission first. He needed them to work efficiently and not have this other version of himself distracted, preoccupied with a future shift in sexual identity. Besides, his early reactions to that were....well...he had never been _against_ homosexuality, exactly. He just... had definite ideas about what it was, and what he wanted, and their supposed incompatibility. Even the meaning of "gay" was different to him back then. He had had to teach himself that it wasn't defined by whether you wanted to put your...oh fuck, he really didn't need to relive his ignorance and try to explain things now. Giving your past self any sort of life advice is best left as an entirely fictional scenario. He'd avoid the topic if at all possible.

"He's fascinating," the preself added, somehow finding the exactly wrong thing to say. 

"Yeah, yeah, he is," was John's curt reply.

"He's changed a lot...or at least, the way he presents himself has changed a lot. When you compare both Sherlocks. I don't know what to think. If you and I are the same, at least I know I will meet him before I hit your age. If I am from another dimension or something-- well then, who the fuck knows, right?"

“Look, I…” _The mission, Watson._ “I can't think of a better idea. Yeah, I guess you can go to the stairs. I’ll stay here.”

“Okay. Should we do some sort of code thing? If we see him?”

“Just keep it short. ‘Here’ if you spot him. ‘SOS’ if he’s doing something weird and you need backup. That sort of thing.”

The preself gave John a thumbs up and headed down the hallway. Once his head was turned, John shook his own head silently. Sherlock said his younger self was an arrogant arse, but John’s own was clearly a clueless, good-natured idiot. And here he was, sending him off to spy on a criminal mastermind. Well. Lord Moran hadn’t seemed like a criminal mastermind so much as a bribed lackey, but still. He could be armed. Besides the bomb. And of course, this time around, Lord Moran could be more dangerous. Maybe. Who knew how this time travel thing worked anyway? Things were supposed to be more or less the same unless there was a divergence, that’s what the younger Sherlock had said. And he seemed to know more about time travel than anyone. Maybe the divergence had already happened— some small change we weren’t even aware of. Then anything could happen.

***

_John looked at Sherlock’s text again to be sure he had their room number right. 543. As he looked up, he spotted a pretty blonde in a gauzy, white coverup who was making her way over from the hotel pool to the lift. She looked at him and then at the man she would probably assume was his younger brother, maybe even his son, with a deliberately shy smile, knowing full well he would hold it for her. And he did. John smiled as she stepped in, said, “Five,” and they all headed from the bar/vending machines/pool/computer room on the ground floor up to the fifth floor concierge level. Waiting for her held things up a bit, admittedly, and John smiled again for an entirely different reason this time. Sherlock would know why they took a bit longer (a fact which never ceased to fill John with admiration and amazement at Sherlock’s capabilities), and it was fine. They were far past the time when John's momentary appreciation of a pretty blonde would raise an eyebrow from his very own striking brunet. And he was grateful._

_On the fifth floor, an impatient Lord Moran pushed the button once more, but the elevator was taking a bit too long. It was still on the first floor. He exited the building by the stairs on his right, trying to hold the briefcase as if it didn't contain a remote linked to explosives. A quick check to see if everything was in place at Sumatra Station, and then he’d head back to their room and wait for the agreed upon time._

***

John’s mobile never made a text alert sound, and all three of them came rushing through at once.

 **In position  
** **A partner?**  
**SO**

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath and cursed his mobile’s failure. He shot off a quick text to Sherlock. 

**Know the room?**

The response was faster this time, the phones from the same timeline somehow synching up more efficiently? 

**Not yet. Give me 5 minutes.**

Too long to wait. John would have to find him on his own. He texted ‘He has John,’ and rushed down the hallway. His self had had to act so quickly he hadn’t even been able to accurately type out SOS.


	6. Path A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two paths diverged in a lemon fic,  
> And glad that I could write them both  
> Yet being one author, long I stood  
> And looked down one as far as I could  
> To where it bent with the trouser growth;
> 
> From this point on, this fic takes on a sort of Choose Your Own Adventure split. Story A sends you to angst (and MCD). Story B sends you to blowjobs (and a foursome). This is story A. Story B will be posted separately. They have much in common, but there are key points where it diverges. Read either. Or both. Both is good. Sound complicated? it's a timetravel fic with alternate universes. Of course it would be complicated.  
> ——————————————————————————————————————————-

"Can you move your fingers?"

"Not at all."

"Mine are a bit, numb, but I've been trying to get some dexterity back. I might be able to do something with these ropes. Sherlock taught me a bit of hand positioning. I expanded my muscles as he was tying us to create some extra space when I contract them."

This other John seemed uncharacteristically quiet, and he kept forgetting that this version of himself didn’t actually know Sherlock’s capabilities. And the other version of Sherlock had never met that John before today. It boggled the mind to think about it, so John made his best effort not to. He would certainly have preferred to have been tied back-to-back with Sherlock. But. John H Watson, in any incarnation, is not a bad person to be tied to. Though his preself had a bare minimum of military skill and training, he likely still knew how to fight. How to take a good, solid hit and keep on going. That might be important. He chuckled. Yeah. Thanks, Dad, for being inter-dimensionally abusive. 

John was able to move his fingers well enough to start working on his preself’s knots.

"When we get out, what do we do next?" asked the preself. 

"I suppose that Sherlock...the Sherlocks...know where we are. Or will soon. We could probably just wait here for them to find us, but that's not exactly my style and it's a safe bet it isn't yours either."

John pulled at the ropes. They were beginning to loosen enough to allow him to slide his wrists a bit. His preself was saying something else now, but John was too focused to pay much attention. He tugged the rope some more and the preself cried out, "Ouch! Ok, this is an odd thing to say to one's Self, but...are you mad at me? Honestly, I think I've managed to make good choices, especially considering the pure rubbish hand I was dealt. I have zero to be ashamed of, and I don't see why you are avoiding me. And I know you are, because I know what I do when I avoid someone. A few quick-witted lines to show I'm no idiot and then a bunch of short responses until they go away. So, aside from being new enough at this to manage to get myself captured and you lured into some sort of trap rescuing me-- could you kindly tell me what the hell I did wrong?"

John stopped working on the knots. "This isn't the best time to have this sort of conversation-- tied back to back in the middle of an escape attempt."

"Sounds like good timing to me. What else can we do while we are trying to untie the knots but talk? I mean, I'd just chat about Blackheath or politics but, everything I know is already basically history for you, and Sherlock has got you too worried to talk about your life, so the way I see it...we can either talk about the situation we are in right now, or you can take a not-so-fun trip down memory lane as I tell you what I've been up to so far."

"Yeah, maybe you should do that. It won’t affect the future, and I can tell if we are basically the same person. Or at least I can tell if we aren't."

"Fine. Remember when we went to Australia on holiday? Adelaide?"

"Sounds like me so far."

"Met Mary Fraser. Nice girl, Mary. Golden hair, those deep blue eyes--"

"Yeah, I know."

"How did Mary Fraser get on the list of things we don't want to talk about? Not a damn thing wrong with that relationship. We even left as good friends when I had to go back."

"Did I say there was anything wrong with Mary Fraser?"

"Just trying to find more pleasant memories to bring up than talking about Harry's drinking and Dad's--"

"Fine, yeah. Okay. Talk about Mary Fraser. Talk about her all you want. So far we are pretty much on the same... life path... then."

"I could talk about someone else."

"Another blue-eyed blonde? Which one are you pulling out of the ol’ memory bank for the sake of conversation?"

"Did you...I...uh, did we just break up with someone?"

"No. I am doing fine in my relationship, thanks."

"Hah! Made you talk."

"Yeah, not likely to happen again." John wanted to test his Self, but talking about his own life did seem like an unnecessary risk. There had to be a way around it. Figure out if he was as much of an arse as he thought he'd be. Maybe just, ignorant? Is there much of a difference? He had another way.

"And Sherlock is with someone as well."

"Someone. It's a bloke, isn't it?"

John was grateful his preself couldn't see his face. "What makes you say that?"

"He just seems like it. Pretty and posh. Though I guess he could be all burly and be gay too. But, between you saying 'someone' and he being... how he is... I just figured he was. Sorry if I was wrong."

"You're… not wrong, and there is nothing to be sorry about if you were."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. I'm sure he's happy with that, and that's what matters. You know how I meant that. Quit being on me for everything I say. Look, I'm sorry I got you into this mess too, but I wasn't exactly expecting to see some guy eye me as he went up the stairs, only to flip back around and come up behind me and shove a pistol to the back of my neck.”

“Well, I wasn’t either. Last time, Lord Augustus Moran was alone. Acting on orders, probably and the only real threat was in the suitcase. Luckily, it was the dad who tied us up and not Sebastian. He was clearly ex-military. He’d of done a much better job of it.”

“So when we get our hands on this bomb, are we supposed to cut the red wire or what?"

"The first time around there was a switch."

"What? Like… an off switch? Bombs have an off switch?"

"Apparently."

"Ok, so if we can get untied—“

“When we get untied,” spat John.

“If he comes back to check on us, I’ll take the old guy and tackle him, and… really, I should disarm the bomb while you take on Sebastian. You know more... fighting stuff.” 

"Well I doubt they will come back before the deed is done. But with two of them there could easily be a second detonator. We are going to have to disarm it at the source. At Sumatra Road Station. But Sherlock should be doing that already."

"Seems to me like he will be too busy rescuing us."

John stopped struggling with the knots again and sighed. Sherlock was moments away from finding the room he thought John’s preself would have been in. And it will be empty. Of course he would be rescuing them instead of saving Parliament. He’d be searching for the right room, even if he had to bust down every door. Well, more likely pick every lock. But he wouldn’t just leave them, even though it was clear the father-son murder tagteam and their bomb was the more important thing to worry about. 

***

“Well, he shouldn't have gone after him.”

“No? Sometimes it is so painfully obvious that you have not met a John Watson in your universe. John Watson would never leave someone behind. I’m sure that is the case for either one of them. For all of them. Loyalty and bravery are no less defining characteristics for them than observation and intelligence are for us.” 

“That's not the same John. Just as we are not the same Sherlock. Each one of us functions in his own little universe, independent of each other, with our own personality quirks.”

“Clearly, because _I_ would have noticed the clerk hesitating about which room number to give me and considered the likelihood of there having been another room booked for someone with the same last name and had made additional inquiries— therefore eliminating the need to break into the registry. Your goal had been speed, not thoroughness. I don’t make those kinds of mistakes. Anymore.”

“Yes. Right. You never do something stupid because you are trying to... well…”

“Impress someone. You were trying to impress me.”

“Well. I am admittedly less, practiced. But the important thing to keep in mind is those Johns are not of equal value.”

“So that was what you were trying to prove. That you are of equal value to me. That’s why you were so determined to find the information on your own.”

The preself ignored the comment. “Remember what I said before? There are some worlds that don't have a form of us in them at all. There are some where you two never meet—”

“And some where you hate each other,” Sherlock interrupted, giving a sharp nod.

“Well, some Johns are obviously more important than other Johns when it comes to altering the course of history. We needed your John at Sumatra, not captured because he decided to chase after the less important one.”

“Importance to the work is not the only form of importance.” Sherlock turned away and headed to the lift, not even glancing back at his preself as he continued to speak. “Yes, you are absolutely right; this serves as further proof that you and I are not the same person. Why would you say such a thing?” He froze, then turned. “What is it you know about the future of this universe?”

The preself answered quickly. “No matter what happens, no harm can come to you or your John while you are in another universe. Your ultimate fate is not planned for this dimension.”

“ _My_ John,” Sherlock said with a sneer. “I don’t limit my concern to _my_ John. And you can't convince me John can't be injured simply because he is not native to this universe. I will not risk his life on a technicality, or an untested supposition of fact, however poetic the Fates and their shears. The fact that I haven't heard from John yet means they are _both_ in that room. And both in danger. And we should be headed there right now.” He hastened his pace. The preself followed.

“Your John won't die. Before that happens you’d both fade out.”

“We have absolutely no control over when we fade out!”

The preself passed Sherlock and cut off his path, pulling out from his inner coat pocket an object which resembled a very tiny remote control. “Actually, you do. So if we can't stop it, we press this, and we fade. Your John, followed by you, followed by me— before the explosion.”

Sherlock stared at the object. “‘Some Johns are not important’. You mean… expendable.”

“Well, consider this. I poked around a bit more. There is no Sherlock Holmes in this Universe.”

“So you have previously stated.”

“But there is a William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Or rather was one. He died at age five, trying to save a friend who had fallen into a well on his family’s property. He had attempted to lower himself down to rescue him on his own, but the rope snapped. His younger sister found the bodies.”

“My—”

“No. Not _your_. _His.”_

“But, he—”

“He could have been you. But he _isn’t.”_

Sherlock started toward the lift once more. He pressed the button and stepped into the opening doors quickly.

“I… I should have found some other way to make my point than this. I’m sorry. I… needed to prove that—”

Sherlock selected the floor, still refusing to face his preself, “No, no, it's fine. You’re right. He’s not me. I am here. And I need all my focus on the here and now. We need to rescue both Johns.” 

Once the doors opened, he sprinted down the hallway, leaving the preself to call out after him, “I already know this universe’s John is going to die!”

Sherlock stopped.

He continued softly. “I knew ages ago, when I was looking at patterns between worlds, and I saw his birth and death records in a military database. He dies. Perhaps in a hotel room. Perhaps as one of the many casualties in this blast as we try to prevent its occurrence. Perhaps he gets hit by a proverbial bus whilst crossing the street when it's all over, unlikely as that might be. All I know is it happens some time this year. He dies. Unless the future can be changed. I don’t know the answer to that, but I do know if we don’t stop this bomb, he isn't the only one who dies— so does whoever is in Parliament at the time. Nice of you to be so concerned about them."

"Nice of you to be so concerned about absolutely no one. You brought us here out of guilt and curiosity. It was hardly your goal to save anyone at all."

“Well, if I only wanted that, I would have kept us all in my own dimension and we'd be solving the case with the cheating university students. Instead, we are here, and about to prevent a major terrorist attack. If you don’t let yourself get distracted.”

"Look, I’m not going to just put us all in danger, wait till things are at their worst, and fade out!’

“Aren’t you? Seems in keeping with your past actions!”

Sherlock spoke in a near-whisper. “I had no control over that. You know this.” He moved in closer, raising his arm the tiniest bit, as if he intended to rest his hand upon his preself’s shoulder, but then dropped it back down to his side and began to search for the room number instead. They were close, but the hotel was a maze of interconnected hallways; the room numbering had stopped and started again round dead end hallways, creating a nearly non-sequential effect.

“I know. Still, I’m surprised by how little the knowledge actually helps.” He took a deep breath. “Assuming the future can be changed, the logical approach would be to leave them tied up wherever they are whilst you and I solve this… bomb thing… and then go back and get them. They will be safer as hostages. Keeps both Johns away from the blast. No heroics. Less chance of death.”

Sherlock thought about this. “We need to be sure they are safe before we handle the disarming. And it seems likely, however complacent Lord Augustus Moran had been in my timeline, that this younger one joining him this time around— his son Sebastian, the disgraced colonel— would prefer there be no witnesses. Besides, you said before that we need a Holmes and Watson together to improve our chances of success.”

The preself sighed and walked toward a fire escape chart plastered to the wall by the stairwell. “Looks like that room number is accessible only through the North Tower. Back down, then over, then up again. Unnecessarily complicated. But somehow fitting to be held in a tower, I suppose.” He gestured toward a lift tucked away in the corner. The preself hit the call button.

The lift opened to reveal John Watson, who had his fingers on his mobile, about to send word of their escape as soon as reception permitted. His preself was standing to his left.

Sherlock grinned at John, and pulled out his mobile to text:  
**Be right there for a daring rescue. -S**

John grinned back, and didn't wait so much as a second before turning back to his own mobile and typing:  
**Unless we save ourselves first.**

As John stepped off the lift, Sherlock quickly shoved his mobile back into his pocket and embraced him, uttering a flurry of half-formed sentences. "I should have known, but...I needed to be certain, and...well, I..." He felt John tense as he noticed his preself was frowning and quickly brought his arms to his side. "Oh. I shouldn’t —“

John looked up at Sherlock. "No, you sure as hell should. And of course you would go find us." Then John kissed him. 

John's preself seemed to have suddenly found some very interesting, nonexistent thing in precisely the opposite direction and wandered down the hallway. John ignored him. "Your wrist escape trick worked perfectly, by the way. I don't think Moran is exactly a hardened criminal here either, just an informant. His son, on the other hand…."

Sherlock took a deep breath before continuing. "Yes. It seemed odd back then too, his passivity during the arrest. I might have looked into it at the time, but, he was already in custody. And I had a life to try to get back. With the crisis averted, it had seemed best to..."

"To move on. I know." John's eyes spoke volumes on all that they'd been through, but Sherlock's preself was far too busy watching John's preself to have noticed. He trailed after him, clearly fighting a smile, knowing it would have been deemed inappropriate. 

"You mean you really didn't know?" Sherlock's preself confronted John's, as they continued to walk. "How is that even possible? I mean, true, you are far from what I would call observant, but...this is, more or less _you_. Are you that obtuse?"

John's preself stared back at Sherlock's. "Of course I knew. It was... it is... a choice I decided not to make."

Sherlock's preself scoffed openly. "Yes. Choice."

"Look. It might not be the most popular opinion, but, whatever feelings I have that might come and go, my behavior is still a series of decisions I make every day. Keeping to what works best for what I want in life is a choice. And a damn good one for me. Not saying it's good for anyone else. And apparently, it wasn't a good one for another version of me. That's fine. Not a thing wrong with that. And even if someone like me thought there was something wrong with it, I don't think I'd give a fuck what they thought."

John glanced toward the preselves and looked as if he wished to catch up with them and listen to their conversation, but Sherlock reminded him they still needed to deal with disarming a bomb, and, fascinating as the conversation theoretically might be, they had to head to the Sumatra Station immediately.

They headed out of the hotel together, bound for the Underground, Sherlock and John still lagging slightly behind the preselves, who were walking doubletime, spurred on by the intensity of their conversation.

"So, now you are convinced he is an entirely different version of you?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you. And I'm happy for him. For them." John’s preself turned back to address his alternate; the original Sherlock and John had finally matched their pace. "For you. I'm happy for you both." Then he faced the accusing version of Sherlock once more. "They... seem to be, a nice couple." 

Sherlock nodded quickly to acknowledge the compliment and headed without so much as a moment's pause across the street to the Underground staircase, speaking as he sprinted down the stairs, "Not the time to assess this particular John's private life! We have a bomb to disarm!"

"Are we certain he will use the same type? In the same place?" John asked, struggling to keep up.

"Absolutely nothing is certain. For now, we will assume congruence. Look for a grate on the right side," Sherlock instructed. "We need to confirm that the train car is still there. The dangerous part is in finding it and checking the panel. Might not be an off switch this time."

"And if there isn't?" John's preself said, approaching them from behind.

"Then we get the hell out of there," Sherlock replied.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock pushed ahead of the others once more, and John kept up.

“I know it wasn’t the right way to have handled it… what I had done the last time we were here. I owe you an apology,” 

“Not an issue. There was… a lot I needed to say that I couldn’t have done. You knew I needed something which would force me to push all my annoyance aside and cut to what really mattered. That you knew how to stop the timer all along was—“

“I didn’t.”

“You… didn’t?”

“My mind palace was, faulty. Flawed. Would I have learned how to diffuse a bomb? Yes. I would have. I did. Once. And that is certainly nothing I would have ever deleted. Far too useful. I believe there are certain things I denied myself access to that are… connected to other things I find difficult to process. So, instead of reconciling which things I might need to know and which I felt the need to wall off—“

John waited. He wanted to finish Sherlock’s thoughts for him by blurting the rest out on his behalf—as if that would be the most efficient way to end this moment, to move right past it. But he forced himself to wait. Sherlock looked at him with glistening eyes before he turned his gaze back to the waiting train car and cleared his throat. John wanted to cry on his behalf. He might even have, a bit.

“— I simply lost access to the information. I looked for it. I truly did. I tried to open the locked filing cabinet, I toppled it over to push up the rod that controls the mechanism. There was none. I tried to pick the lock. To pry it open. Everything I did was unsuccessful. And painful. Each act of violence I committed upon that cabinet, I could _feel_...an actual, physical sensation of pain. I had no idea why bomb construction and detonation had been placed within a locked file, and what it was connected to.” He paused, took a breath, then continued. “I do now. Now that I know our ancestral home was destroyed. Explosive devices must have been used. Perhaps I tried to stop it and failed? In any case, everything tangential to Eurus was inaccessible, and the fight to access it was the beginning of my awareness that something was very wrong.”

“I thought you knew all along. About how to diffuse it, that is. That there would be a switch.”

“I don’t see why you wouldn't think that. It is, after all, what I had told you.”

“Amongst other things. That I could still have a life, with Mary. You wanted me to say no, didn’t you?”

“I wanted you to give me some sort of version of a deathbed confession, yes. I did see that I could diffuse it, but not until I was staring at a rather unanticipated off switch.”

“And putting me through all that was part of the fun. No, really that sounded bitter, but, it’s what you do. And I’ve never done anything but let you push that boundary, cross that boundary of inappropriate action for a good laugh at my expense. And I’d usually join you in it. So, I suppose I must be okay with it on some level I will never quite understand.”

“Only when I have messed things up so badly that I genuinely have no idea what to do next to remedy an irremediable situation. Boswell may well have told us Johnson called patriotism the last refuge of the scoundrel, but truly humour is the last refuge of the idiot.”

“Well, we were lucky to have had a switch. I suppose that was the important thing.”

“Too lucky. It was almost as if it was designed to be ridiculously easy to shut down. Random luck? More likely a set up from whoever gave Moran the weapon to begin with. I think it likely we were being observed, like when Magnussen was checking for pressure points. Maybe whoever it was behind it wanted to see what would happen if we thought we might die, but then carried on living. Sounds like a rather interesting experiment, doesn’t it? I cannot be certain who it was, or if it was done for that purpose, but it was the simplest switch ever. A child could have disarmed it. Of course, if someone had put it in place to observe what we might have meant to each other back then, they would have no reason to do so now. What we mean to each other is clear for all to see. This—does not bode well for their being an off switch this time, John.”

Sherlock looked at the car once more and waited for the others to catch up and hear the plan. It was exactly where they had expected it to be, but no one took comfort in that fact. “If the switch isn't there, we will be forced to find Moran and retrieve the case before the detonation sequence begins.”

“And if the countdown has already started?” said John’s preself. “Then what? Something tells me the answer isn’t actually, ‘Get the hell out of here’” 

“Then we have to get rid of the bomb. Move it out of this location to a more remote tunnel,” answered Sherlock.

John shook his head. “How? It’s built into the car itself. We can’t move the whole car. We would have to cut wires at random.”

“Which would make it go off. Any action film tells you that much,” scoffed his preself.

“We might not have to worry about this. It might have a switch,” John replied.

“So do we all go in and check it out? I mean whether we are inside the thing or not, we’d still be toast if it goes off,” the preself said.

“It doesn’t require four of us,” said John.

Sherlock’s preself stepped up to the car. “It should only require one, and yet, here we all are. So let’s all have a look.”

***

The car seemed exactly the same, and Sherlock strode over to the floorboard and lifted it for access. The bomb was there. It had three minutes and five seconds remaining, and was rapidly ticking down. There was no switch.

Sherlock looked up and shook his head. “About three minutes to decide what to do next.” He dropped the panel back on the floor with a thud.

John’s preself crossed the car to examine the ticking bomb himself. “Wait!”

“Wait?” said John, “What do you mean wait? We have less than three minutes!”

“Wait. It’s stopped!”

John joined his preself at the timer. “Frozen at three?”

Sherlock glanced toward the device and smiled, though his expression was quite far from joyful. “Someone wants to know what we plan to do. They are giving us time to think.”

John’s preself leaned in closer and prodded the bomb delicately. It was built into the car itself. There was no removing it. “But if we can’t change its location in space, we can change its location in time, right? Keep it right here, physically, but send it back to prehistoric London and let it kill some dinosaurs?”

“There is a way out of this situation without harming anyone or else we wouldn’t be given the time to ponder it. I need to think.” Sherlock paced the train car. “I can’t do it in here. I’m contaminated by old information, data from a previous situation. I need to— I need to walk away from this track, and _think_. Leave me to myself, I’ll figure this out.”

Sherlock turned to leave. John placed a hand on his shoulder, then let him go.

His preself waited only a few seconds before following him. 

“I’m disappointed in your lack of intellectual curiosity, to be honest. We had the ability to explore the inner workings of the universe. Peek in at, well, let's call it God's Plan for the sake of dramatic effect. And yet, you remained focused on only one person. Why?”

“I would think you’d find a better time to criticise me. Perhaps when we arent preventing an explosion.”

“Just trying to understand.”

“I am focused on saving lives.”

“You are focused on saving a life, yes. Have you even told him?”

“What benefit could he possibly gain from knowing he is likely to die?”

“Not that him. Your John. Have you told your John that his preself is, in all probability, going to die?”

“What purpose would that serve?”

“I have no idea. But it seems like something someone would claim is the ‘right’ thing to do. You know— horrendously difficult and painful, but ‘right’.”

“Perhaps it is. But I think for now it would only serve as a distraction.”

“You should know I just checked my equipment and it is, acting up, a bit. Could be nothing. Could be indicative of an unstable area.”

“Like a sort of timeslip?”

“It is lighting up on the screen as if there is a way out of this universe, but I see no indication of where the exit it is, or of it going anywhere in particular. The window we came through led here. There have never been multiple exit or entrance points unless they were deliberately created by someone. My best guess is that one is a temporary anomaly which appears to lead… nowhere.”

“Good. So we can put the bomb in there. And then let's just find Moran and shove him in along with. Except we can’t find him easily, and we can’t move a train car.”

“And I don't seem to have brought any tranquiliser darts with me to fire at him to immobilise him whilst we throw him into a portal. Unless you happen to have some in your coat?”

“I seem to recall saying something quite recently about humour being the last refuge of an idiot. We are both out of ideas, then?”

“Apparently. But the portal has possibilities. If we are indeed given the time to work it through.”

“Tick. Tock,” said Sherlock, bitterly.

“You know who is doing this.”

“I might.”

“It might help to analyse their modus operandi in contemplating a solution.”

“Not in this instance. The best advice I can offer is to keep a level head. Our emotions will be used against us. We are inside a grand experiment.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCD in this chapter. If that’s not your thing, head over to Part B. Same beginning, different ending.

“We should head back, so we will be aware if the clock should start to count down again.”

“Shouldn’t we just leave now, while we still have the chance? Go get the police department. Let them handle it.”

“I’m telling you there’s a way out, or else we wouldn’t have been afforded the time to consider the possibilities.”

“So what? So there’s a better way out. A ‘right’ choice. I don’t much care if we find it. We should leave.”

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and searched his mind for other solutions. He opened them up, still looking downward, and conceded his loss. “Fine. We will leave.”

“Maybe this observer’s solution is flawed. If they are of this time, they may think they know time travel better than they actually do.”

Sherlock looked up and wrinkled his brow.

“I mean, for example, they might be like John II and think we can just zap something and poof!— it switches timelines.”

“I thought we could throw it into a hole, like some bottomless pit of time.”

“Instability fields do occasionally exist. Dr Weise mentioned them. But they are rare and temporary. Opening a true portal occasionally creates aftereffects, and instability. That’s the real concern about overlapses. They don’t mess with other timelines, but they do create pockets of...well...the energy to create a field can linger on a bit. And it is aimless and unpredictable.”

“So that is fairly accurate.”

“Yes. If we can actually find one. And if we did manage to stick a person in there, they would bounce around from one time period to the next, having the same instability issues as the field itself. They’d change form.”

“You mean older and younger versions of themselves, bouncing through time?”

“No, I mean a ‘Surely I wasn’t a Pembroke Welsh Corgie yesterday?’ kind of change.”

“Oh.”

“To fade away from this timeline, there would have to be some timeline to fade away to. I could fade you back. Or myself. But there is another requirement. There also must be some sort of living energy to connect to. A someone, not a something. Though I must confess that sending back an object didn’t exactly come up in the discussions I had on the subject. There might be a way around it.”

“Well, we better find it fast.”

They walked back to the car, and when they were within a few metres they could hear both Johns arguing away.

“Don’t you think if they could just send the bomb back they would have?”

“People make mistakes.”

“Not those two. If there is a plan to be made, they will come up with it. And it won't involve anyone pulling some Wrath-of-Khan Spock moment either!”

“A…?” said Sherlock, entering the car and sitting casually on the cushioned bench, crossing his legs.

“I’ve no idea,” said his preself, as he leaned against the doorway.

“Not important,” said John. “Not gonna happen anyway.”

“Sounded like some type of a sacrifice,” Sherlock said.

“It is. He wanted us to leave and he’d stay and cut the wire!” John walked up to his preself and shouted mere centimeters from his face, “Wasn’t it you that said that that would just make the bomb go off?”

His preself showed no signs of backing down. “You have time. You could evacuate the building.”

“So could a bomb squad if we all left right now and notified the authorities!”

“That was, my next suggestion,” said Sherlock. “We are short on brilliant solutions.”

“Well I figured since you don’t seem to be able to send it back to the dinosaurs, we needed another plan?”

“It needs an organic component in order to— “

“Shhhhh! Did you hear that?” John’s preself sped over to the bomb. “It’s ticking again!”

“What’s the count?” asked John, all traces of anger gone from his voice. 

“Two minutes, forty two seconds. Do it! There’s no time! Send me somewhere with it!”

“We can’t send you anywhere!” Sherlock shouted, “This is your world!”

Sherlock’s preself turned to Sherlock and spoke quietly. “He’d go to the holding area. That’s what it’s set to right now.”

“We can’t send a bomb to the holding area. It would destroy it and you with it!” said John.

“I could go with him, then send him back home immediately. Myself as well. Though that would leave you both stranded here.”

“Or we could find that portal.”

“Just send me back! There won’t be enough time to send us out again. The bomb will go off before you can do it. Send me back with it alone!”

“We might be able to ta—“

John’s preself rushed forward into Sherlock’s, wrenched the teleportation device out of his hands, shoving him back into John, and ran to where the bomb was ticking down its final minute.

“The needs of the many...outweigh…” 

There was a quick flash of light, an outline of a figure, and then, on the far side of the train car, there was nothing but empty space.


End file.
